Decatur Eagle, Volume 1, Number 2, Decatur, Adams County, 20 February 1857 — Page 1

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VOL, 1.

THE DECATUR EAGLE. PUBLISHED EVERY FRIDAY MORNING. Offices on Maia Street, in the old School House, one Square North of J. & P Crabs’ Stars. Terms of Subscription: For onn v; ar, I 50, in advance; $1 75, « itliia six months; $2 00, after the year has expired. No paper will be discontinued until all towages are paid, except at the option of the Fa 111....... Terms of Advertising: due Square, three insertions, $1 00 Mach subsequent insertion, t ‘No advertisement will be considered less tian orc ■ • ' ijituael— Lw o, as three, etc. JOB PRINTING. We are prepared to do all kinds of JOB< WORK, in a neat and workmanlike manner, on thd most reasonable terms. Our material for the completion of Job-work, being new and of the latest styles, we are confident that satisfaction can be given. Law of Newspapers. 1. Subscribers who do not give express notice to the contrary, are considered as wishing to continue their subscriptions. 2. Jf subscribers order the discontinuance of their papers, thepublisher may continue to send them until all arrearagi i are paid. 3. If subscribers neglect or refuse to take their i paper from the < dice they are held respon-ihie till they have settled the bill and ordered the paper discontinued. 4. If subscriber , remove to other places with- ’ out informing the publisher, and the paper is still sent, to the former direction, they are held ' responsible. Qj”! he Court have decided that refusing to take a paper from the office, or removed and leavipg it uncalled forisraiMA facie evidence of ’’ intentional fraud. ; Oil! BLAME ME NOT. ; I “ ~ > BY FINLEY JOHNSON. o' Oh! blame me not, because I weep — At that familiar strain; For it brings hack on memory’s wing, Past joy, and grief, and pain ; y And none can know the woes that Spring it At mention of that song,— ” i j Or fathom the deep mysteries Which unto it belong; Ai well attempt to find within The mermaid's coral caves, The jewels which therein are cast -<•) ♦ 1 a-j wcuii » restlcsis wnvcs. .ar: Ah, though those tones unmeaningly el Should fall upon the ear, They'll day me in my merriest mood, And bring- back scenes most dear; jus, They have for me a magic charm, o'-'t Which none may never know; -• r ' They bind my soul unto the past By chains of joy and woe; = “’ And when that sweet and simple straid Falls on my weary heart, l l i , Fond memory eauses burning tears lher Unto my eyes to start. Tin ' O, there are voices of the past, Link of a broken chain, — th* And wings that bear us back to scenes p it That cannot come again; laiw O, there are echoes soft and sweet, • u ‘!'‘ Which in the heart arise,— Though there are some whose stony hearts Is- This influence dispise; !1! j Then blame me not because I weep ’ At that familiar strain— For it brings echoes of the past With all its joy and pain. ! s' TWICE WEDDED. 7 5 1° £ A Story of Kcal Life. 13 > 24 t 1 BY MRS. C. VAUGHAN. jbov -‘A- group of gay young girls went one giviummer alter noon to take tea with old ; fit Mrs. Kennedy, who lived all a lone in. a ua ‘/ieat little cottage by the river-side. We loved to visit ‘Grandma Kennedy,’as lU iciv« called her, but this time there was I giveadness mingled with our enjoyment. Everything reminded us of Lucy Kennedy, :lon he old lady’s grandchild, who had been >hia, ' ie playmate and companion of us all. :ei> ffihe had died in the early spring time, and er grave was beneath the green mound t the foot of the great weeping elm in the , arden. We had seen her all the winter L Hording away like the snow wreaths, and peopt, last had beheld her in her coffin, white they, with her small hands folded on p a , L er still bosom, and her bright hair laid icce- moothly back from her peaceful brow, in tl\ n d nc .v the flowers were springing above a 'Vu et gfuve, and the old grandmother was at 11 alone. All the afternoon we had wandered • TB bout»;as we had been wont to do when ami iucy was with us, gathering flowers and le tra erries, but the charm was gone. Our ‘*y ones were modulated as we spoke to each uw.r-^' er ’ we move( A lightly as in the piesencc f Death, and if, by chance, a laugh burst omone, it jarred so painfully upon our pp| feelings that, it was almost sure to [ Li’ followed by a hysterical sob from each. We l ad gathered in a group upon the jUrktuoolh grass by the river-brink, and were icqnscionsly in low tones, discussing the ieto: y s L er y which had attended Lucy’s sickisaind death. We only knew that she id returned in the latter days of the stor-•

my Autumn of the past year, from a lengthened visit to some distant relatives. That the news of her return bad been immediately followed dy that of her illness, and that without other visible disease that was indicated by a slight cough, she had gradually, but surely, gone down into the grave that on one of those brilliant mornings of March which come as forerunners of approaching summer, was opened to receive her. While, in subdued tones, we were thus conversing of our lost friend, wc saw the old lady come to the dour of her c-tk •■■■ ' '. .. Ar a .re regaruing us who were grouped upon the bank, and we knew' by the quick movement of her hand that she wiped away a furitive tear, called to >her dim eyes by the memory of the dead, of whom our presence and our youthful forms and voices reminded her. There was a most attractive air about that aged figure, clad iu soft, falling black robes, and with her white hair put back from her lofty brow, and covered by the snowy cap, crossed by its broad black ribbon. And when she raised her voice and called us to her tea table, we soon surrounded her, almost as joyfully as of old. ‘Grandma Kennedy’ was beloved by alll who knew her, for she was the friend of all. Much of her life was passed in active kindness. There was scarcely one of us who had not from infancy associated her with the scenes of suffering and sorrow into which she had been wont to come as comforter, or with the household festivals were she had been an honored guest. And later, we had learned to love her for sweet Lucy’s sake. So, joyously in spite of the shadow of that green mound beneath the elm tree, we gatherd round her board and ‘Grandma Kennedy,’ with her placid brow and her still handsome though aged face, laid aside fora time ill her griefs, to join in our merriment. * But bye and bye the name of Lucy stole into our conversation. It would have been strange if it had not, where everything so reminded us of her, and, gathering courage from our old friend’s composed though serious features, one of us bolder than the rest, told her of our conversation by the river side, and begged her, if she might, to tell us more than rumor had informed us of Lucy’s richness and death. She assented, and rising from the table, for by this time our meal was concluded, she led the way to the little parlor where Lucy had died. And there told us the story which I have embodied in the following sketch. Business or inclination had led James Kennedy in his youth to the small inland city of L some hundreds of miles from his own rural home. L was then but a little cluster of settlor’s houses, and James finding the situation promising for future trade, had built a cabin and a rude store, and commenced business. He prospered, well, and in a few years took to himself a wife, the daughter of one of the first settlers of the place. A few years afterwards, his health failing, he gave up his regular business, and entered into speculations in lands. AH he had was thus invested, and lie seemed on the high road to fortune, when his wife suddenly sickened. In his close attention to her business was neglected, and on the day he laid her in the grave, the first of a long series of financial misfortunes occurred to him. He had purchased land with a defective title to the amount of many thousands of dollars, and lost the whole. Misfortune succeeded misfortune, and a vear afterward he died penniless, and left his little daughter Lucy to the j care of such friends as fate might raise up to her.

As soon as ‘Grandma Kennedy,’ heard of her son’s dangerous illness, she hastened to his side. And when he was no more and the funeral services were over she signified to the parents of his wife that she would willingly take the little girl to her litim'ble home. No objccti n was made, and when she returned, the orphan accompanied her to the cottage by the river side. Thenceforth that was Lucy’s home, and she became the light of the aged woman’s eves. Letters from the relatives of her mother occasionally reached her, and sometimes they were accompanied by trifling gifts. But until she reached the age of eighteen she had received no invitation to visit them. Whether rumors of her extraordinary beauty had reached them, or late compunctions fortheir neglect had visited them, I know not, but on Lucy’s eighteenth birthday a letter came, enclosing a sum of money sufficient for outfit and expenses, and requesting her to proceed at once to L ■. The letter was filled with protestations of affection, and bore the signature of her mother’s only sister, the wife Ui ti Wealthy piX/fcSSiOiial and purported to have been written by request of her grand parents and the whole family cicle. Lucy could not refuse, and soon after on a bright June morning, she bade adieu

“Our Country’s Good did 11 ever be , our Aim —i Hing to Praise and not afraid to Blame.”

DECATUR, ADAMS COUNTY. INDIANA, FEB. 20,1857.

' to her grandmother and her pleasant rus- ' tie home, and started upon the long anti- ' cipated visit. Mrs. Kennedy bade her darling fare-1 well with many undefined forebodings, but Lucy gaily promised to return again i ere long, to make her happy, and she kindly forebore to damp her joy by one sad word, and forced back the starting 1 tears until she could shed them in the ' solitude of her deserted home. Lucy was received with open arms and : I profuse expressions of affection, and lis-J . Ld'Musuvs, io a thousand encomiums upon the beauty which before ' she had scarcely been conscious of pos-1 sessing. She found herself the petted ; guest of a large circle of wealthy relatives I and was introduced to the best •society of J I the young city. And in society the ad- j ulation she met was only equaled by that ■ of her friends. j The influences which now surrounded her would spoil almost any other rustic ) beauty, thus suddenly transplanted to bloom among exotics of fashion, but Lucy’s pure and simple heart was a sufficient I shield. She never.lost the sweet humilii ty and unselfishness of her character. ! One more hackneyed than herself might ■ have discovered the anxiety of her friends I that she should make what, is technically called‘a good match,’ and their disap- [ pointment when she rejected two or three of the most unobjectionable matches of i the city; young men who were members I of its aristocracy, simply because she did , not love them. One more hackneyed might have suspected that she had been invited to partake the tardy hospitality of these friends in order that they might, in the pleasantest way to themselves, discharge their long neglected duly to her by getting her married well in a worldly point of view, to the upbuilding of their own pride, and the comforting of their own consciences. : But Lucy thought of none of these things;! but gracefully pursued her way, enjoying ; all her new advantages to the utmost, and gladening the homes she entered by the i : freshness of her beauty and her simple 1 I heart. But Lucy cruil.l tmL olwnyo remain I heart free. The limo came when the) warm blood mantled her check at the I sound of a familiar voice, and she trem-1 bled as the touch of a familiar hand met hers. She loved, and knew she was beloved. Richard Harvey had h tely made his residence in L . ■ He was said to be a Southerner, and immensely rich. He talked of his plantations and his city houses, his sugar mills and his servants,! and pompous papas invited him to costly | dinners, while their sons feebly imitated his vices without dread of the paternal frown. He talked of his box at the Opera his Parisian furniture, and the family jewels deposited in the deep vaults of the family-patronized bank until a fair lady should be found to wear them, and mammas petted and lionised him, and their daughters displayed all their airs for his admiration, He might have won the proudest and loveliest of L. ’s galaxy of beautiful girls, but his heart .turned to Lucy with its first sincere affection, and she, with tremulous joy, promised to be his, her heart aching the while with the mighty burden of a happiness which she was utterly unable to comprehend. "When it was known that Lucy ■would marry Richard Harvey, she was more I petted and carressed than ever before.— j Rich presents were showered upon her by 1 her selfish relatives, whose whole study ! seemed to be to add to her happiness.— | And with Harvey always by her side, she ■ passed many weeks in a delirum of delight such as seldom absorbs the being of; any of the daughters of humanity. Letters full of Lucy’s joyous anticipations frequently came to ‘Grandma Kennedy’ at this period. The old lady rejoiced in' her darling’s happiness, but i could not quite restrain a sigh’ as she | thought of her own’Jonely future. Lucy had won a promise from ilavey, that her home should be the home of ‘Grandma Kennedy,’ but the old lady had far too much knowledge of human nature to believe that her rusticity would be welcome amidst the splendor which would surround Lucy in her new relation; and she tried [ to look forward with calmness to the re- i maining years of her solitary pilgrimage. Alas! how little did she foresee how those I years were to be darkened! I . . • i The time appointed for the marriage of ; Richard Harvey and Lucy Kennedy was fast approaching. Preparations were being made upon a scale of magnificence ! hitherto unknown in L. , and rather f proportioned to the reported fortune of the bridegroom elect, than even to those of Lucy wealthy grandparents. Au the tim n apnoached. Lucv often obIt ' I served a shadow on her lover’s brow, that i even her presence and caresses sometimes i failed to chase away. To all her ques- ' tions he spoke of business, of letters from i his agents, or perhaps of trfval iuJisposi-

tioii. And then he would talk lightly of othtr things, of his beautiful home, or the ( couirerics of the Old World he had visited would forgot that sadness had ever re nted the brow upon whichshe loved tog!’■re Oi evening, a week before the time apprj lid for their marriage, they drove togc; i r through one of the greeu country ire,ad' in the environs of L . It was a ioy • evening in early Autumn, and . the ght came shimmering down - . -yet 'untouched foliage of the . overhanging trees and glorified Lucy’s ■ bright looks and pure uplifted brow; but iit fell with a lurid glare upon the swart i fo/ehad and black crisped curl's of herlovI er, as gazing moodily out of the window, ' hi seemed to forget his fair and loved companion. Lucy had been too full of happy | thoughts to note the silence, till the alI most fierce pressure of the band which lay in his, caused her to turn quickly to meet I his dark gaze. With a cry, almost of fright, she sprung to his side and wept in her vague unknown fear. The expression if his face, as she turned, had been almost fiendish. It was long before her entreaties could win him io speech, and then he told her of fresh business difficulties that might call him from her side at a moment’s warning. There was a fear, he said, that his best estate might be lost through some mismanagement, and in away she could not understand; and if his present fears were confirmed, ho must leave at once, and endeavor by his own aid and presence to save it. And then he reassured her by loving words and caresses, and Lucy forgot that fearful look. I They drove onand on, and the sun sank and the twilight began to steal over the scene. Lucy spoke of return, and he gave some orders to the coachman, and then drawing her to his bosom, he whisi pored his fears of a parting till Lucy grew | very sad. And then he besought her to I become his wife that night, so that if the ' necessity of that sudden parting came bci fore the wedding day, he might know that she was really, if secretly, his. And Lucy’ was simple and trustful, and never druame l:of iyli.g.a y. I Just then the carriage drove up to a i pleasant country inn, and Lucy saw the firelight shining through the small windows of a snug sitting room. Without one thought of evil she alighted, and, leaning upon hei lover’s arm, went in. An hour afterward a clergyman, who had been hurriedly summoned, made them one. A supper was laid in a pleasant little ! room, which after the singular wedding, I the clergyman partook with the young couple. Firmly believing the statements which had been made to him, and rejoiced at the large fee handed him by Richard, which made such a providential addition to his narrow income, he departed first giving the bride a certificate of marriage, and the pair were at length left alone. Full of their strange new happiness, they lingered a little while, though the carriage stood at the door, and the horses pawed the ground impatiently. Again and mrain they smiled each in the others face, as they thought of the little secret which they would keep for a week, and which need never be told unless Richard should be called away; and they waited for more last loving words, standing with arms entwined, upon the hearth, with the red firelight shining over them, when the door was rudely opened, and two men entered the room. Harvey turned in surprise and anger to confront them. But a heavy hand was already upon his shoulder, just where Lucy’s small palm had lain, and a coarse voice calling him by his name of Richard i Harvey, and numerous aliases, arrested him as one, the leader, of a daring band of counterfeiters who had long infested the country. I cannot describe the scene. Lucy onIly remembered that there were shouts, and a struggle, and curses; that shots were ' fired, and that some strong arm bore her to the sofa. When she awoke from her long uncon-, ciousness the good clergyman and several women stood around her with looks of I deep compassion on their faces, butßichard and the men who had arrested him: ; were gone. She would have returned to her home that night, but when she strove to rise she ! i found herself quite unable. It was not until noon of the next day that, accompanied by the clergyman who had married her, she approached her grad father’s I house. The tidings of her marriage and ■ the arrest of Harvey had preceded her, ' and the doors of that house which, but j the day before resounded with the prepa- : rations for her wedding, were closed ! against her The pnde and self-love of • its inmates had been wounded, and now they spurned the suffering orphan-bride from their door. Lucy’ returned to the Minister’s house, and there she remained until she had recovered, from the first fearful shock,

enough of strength to suffice for a journey to her old humble home. On. her wav she visited the jul where her husband was confined, and learned from his utvn lips that there was no hope of an acquittal. No man is all bad, for there lurks a germ of goodness in the vilest heart, and iu the most sin-corrupted soul that ever was created in the Divine image. Harvey had completed nil hi. preparations for a permanent abandonment .f his evil life. ’. very in ,i.l lie intended to flee far from the pursuit of justice, and find among strangers a new home where he might commence anew and belter life'. When this was dunt- he mciuit to coll to his side the beatiful girl whom he had made Lis wife, and whom, since he had known her, he had looked upon as his saviour. So pure was she, that he had never once dreamed of linking her to himself until he had forever abandoned his life of sin. But his sin had followed him, and justice had overtaken him upon the very threshold of reformation. When they parted in that dismal jail-room, both felt that it was forever. Lucy went home to die. She was not one to love lightly and forget. So, while her husband lav in i iil, during his lon ' trial, and even after the gloomy walls of the Slate Prison closed around him, she continued to pine, and with the fiist warm breath of spring death came and released her. A few gifts of him she loved surrounded her to the last, and were buried with her.

On the day before our visit, Mrs. Kennedy had heard of the suicide, in prison, of Richard Harvey. She had promised Lucy never to speak of him while he lived but now she was released from her promise, and she told us the sad story as a warning, and that we might know how Lucy suffered and died. In the twilight we stood once more by Lucy’s grave. Her memory seemed to us invested with a new dignity of a gi\at sorrow. But wc were almost glad that the grave had covered I that great sorrow, and that it had not been her lotto bear it through a lengthened life. V»\> bade tlie green mound ! farewell without a tear. Twice she had been wedded. The last ; bridegroom was Death. He wrapped ; her in his icy arms, and bore her to that cold bridal couch—the grave. And there, in her green bed, we gladly left her, sorrowing more for the aged mourner left behind, than for the bright young beauty that went down into the tomb. Preaching and Legislating.—When so many clergymen are yielding to the temptation held out to them to enter political life, an incident told of Dr. Plumer, by tl.e I'reul'ijteriun lieraid, has its moral: It is related -that a committee of the dominant party in the Legislature of Virginia waited upon Dr. Plumer, then resident in Richmond, and pastor of one of its churches, but now professor in the Western Theological Seminary, and inquired whether he would consent to become their canidate for the United States Senate, assuring him that he could be very easily elected if he would permit his name to be used by the party. The Doctor, after thanking them for the honor in tended to be confcrcd upon him, said io them in liis oracular style; Gentlemen, 1 believe you are in the habit, when you give up one office to seek another, of aiming to go up higher, arc you not?’ They I repliedin the affirmative. ‘Well then,’ said he ‘it is a high honor, nnd a very honorable office, to represent the State of Virginia in the United States Senate, but it is a much higher one to be an embassador of Christ to dying sinners and I can’t i come down from a minister of the Court of Heaven to that of a United States' Senator.’ He magnified his office, as did Paul, and so should every other mani who bears it in his person, and if he does i not do it, those who conferred it upen hfm should deprive him of it, and give it to men who will fulfill its duties aud properly appreciate its dignities. Can’t Phrases.—Can’t phrases are not wholly to be despised. Worthless as they are in themselves, they have their uses, they are the straws in the air—j the chips in the stream, which serve to show the current of opinion, They are! the crannies and chinks in the professions put forward by party, through which wc may look and discover the hidden principles by which it is swayed. They express little, but they often indicate much. Like the stratum which lies immediately over a seam of coal, they may be regar- i as mere rubbish; but then it is rubbish we are delighted to find inasmuch as it is in certain contact with a mine of wealth. The Poorest of the Poor.—A shrewd i old gentleman once said to his daughter:' Be sure, my dear, that you never marry spoor man; but remember, the poorest man iu the world is one that Las money and nothing else.’

Speaking of the milk and water diet on ! which the ladies are fed, reminds us of • the equally ridiculous fodder which tha minded women offer them iu the . manifestoes of their conventions. Mrs. Davis delivered herself, on the platform in the Broadway Tabernacle, of the foli lowing luminous und most suggestive ' proposition: “It was women’s spontaneity—her in’•erqt ption of the ftfliri iitics and repulsion of nature —that fitted her to be arbiter and queen in the sphere of the affcctoins. When we Tee, through all the mist of • ages, what women Las accomplished [ against all odds, wc see how gloiiuus and sublime’ is to be her mission.” We venture to say that her mission will never send her to follow in the wake of 'Mrs. Davis or Lucy Stone. Here and there a slighted aged maireieti or_a. disappointed wife may snarl at I society as it is, and hope that revolution • will (urn up somethig better; but ninety--1 nine out of every hundred of the daughters, wives and mothers of the civilized I world know full well that, next to God, the true woman is man’s object of heartworship. To make men out of women is to convert wives into politicians, and mothers into lawyers, would dethrone I the sex, convert them into rivals and foes, ' and render them miserable where now • they are blessed as they bless. The folly of exalting women by putting her into breeches, is without a parallel among tho ' vagaries of fools. | A very ‘particular Friend, is Amos 1 Smith, and a very decided enemy to all worldly titles as any body in Philadelphia knows; but as a bui.-ncss correspodent from the South didn’t know. And ‘thereby hangs a tale.’ This correspondent had directed his letter to Smith, A’.-'/. Friend Amos replied punctually, ami after dispatching busiue.re matters, "adtkd the following postscript: i ‘I desire to inform thee that, being a .member of the Society of Friends 1 am ' not free to use worldly titles in addressing my friend-, and wish them to refratu ! from using them to me. Thou wilt there- ! fore, please to omit the word Esquirt at I the end of my’ name, and direct thy letter to Amos Smith, without nnv tail.’ By the return mail came a reply, dirccI ted, in precise accordance with the re- ' quest of the particular Friend, to *.lw. J Smith, wit.': nt any tail, Philadelphia. -■■■ HI —» Hl Beautiful Extract.-The velvet moss grows on a sterile rock—the mistletoe flourishes on the naked branches-the ivy clings to the mouldering ruins—the pine and cedar remain fresh and fadeless timid the mutations of the pas. ing vear and Heaven be praised something' sweet something beautiful to see, and grateful to tho soul, will in the darkest hour of fate, still twine its tendrils around the crumbling alters and broken arches of dessolate temples of the human heart. An Un an swear a bus question.—Tho Rev. Mr. E , ho lives near Portland, was preparing his discourse for the next, tiabbalh. -stepping occasionally to review what he had written and to erase that, which he was disposed to improve, when he was accosted by his little son, who had numbered but three summers: ‘Father, does God tell you what to preach?’ ‘G’ertainly, my child.’ ‘Then what, makes you scratch it out;* The future is concealed—clouds and darkness hide it from our view. We know not what a day may bling fourth, nor what an hour; we know however, that death is there, and after death the judgment—and alter the judgment the issues thereof—eternal life, or eternal death. Look up,’ thundered the captain of a vessel, as a his boy grew giddy while gazing from the topmast,’look up!' The boy look up, and returned in safety. Young man, lookup, and you will succeed.— Never lock down and despair. Look up. Once, at table, Pitt was expiating on the superiority of the Latin over the English language, and cited as an instance the fact that two negatives made a thing more positive than one affirmative could do. “Then your father and mother,” said Lord Thurlow, ‘must have been themselves t.wo negatives to have introduced such a positive fellow as you are.' A farmer told his man to run into the pasture and catch an ox' ‘I mean the I will manage the other myself, * he snid The man ran off to do as ho was bidden, but suddenly paused on his way with the exclamation, He is a reasonable fellow anyhow. How am I to know which is the orphan?’ A man in Kentucky was so enormouily °'K- That when ne died it took two clergyman and a boy to preach his funeral sermon.

NO. 2.